At the Motel
Vero Beach, FL
Max clicked the fat buttons on the AC unit; the beeps indicated it was 76 degrees. Then he clicked the overhead fan to spin faster. He paused to watch the fan squeak to a steady pace, joining the AC unit’s labored sounds and the squealing shower pipes. The loveseat had the sensation of being well-sat-in—or, possibly, fucked-on—by prior occupants. He kicked off his motorcycle boots, stuffed his socks inside, and set them on the opposite side of the couch at the farthest corner of the room. He scooted closer to the microwave on the countertop, turning it so he could see his face in the shadowed glass door.
Two cuts on his left cheek and a busted upper lip. The swelling on his left eye was down. He grimaced and checked that no teeth were loose or missing. He ran his hands through his dark hair and tugged at it to make it stand taller and more crazy.
The shower stopped; the pipes squealed at a higher pitch until they ceased. His stomach dropped. He shook his head, regained himself, and nudged the microwave past its original position. The bathroom door opened, and a blonde girl walked out, wearing only a vintage-bootleg Mötley Crüe shirt. He watched as she wrapped her hair in a towel. He watched her toned legs twitch and flex under the oversized T-shirt. She looked up at him, one hand on the towel, smiled, and said, “Your turn.”
He turned on the shower and waited for it to heat back up. He took off his jeans and white T-shirt he’d changed into before they left Sarasota. He took a loose, nervous shit, flushed, and prayed to God. I know I’ve done things you wouldn’t like. I know I fucked up. Please help me. I’ll do whatever you want if you keep me free.
In the shower, he forced himself to endure the pain of the hot water on his wounds. He wanted it to hurt worse so he could gain focus. He turned the knob to max heat, but Paige had used it up. Water rushed over his back as he pressed his forehead into a shower tile. Keep it together.